all you sinners stand up
by impulsivegallagher
Summary: Dried blood coated against his face, left eye swollen shut from the brute force of a fist that had easily been larger than his head, he knew he painted the image of south side scum. But it had been what he wanted. What he needed.


_prologue._

Twirling the knife around in his hands, a tedious act he'd picked up as more of a nervous habit years ago, he leaned back against the bed sheets and inhaled deeply. He purposely ignored the scar that stretched along the length of his forearm and instead focused on the blade that he'd swiped from Ian's old collection years ago, a box that had been hidden in the attic as a precaution.

He hadn't seen Ian in months, not since the incident.

Feeling a light vibration against his thigh, he poked a finger into his pocket and pulled out the iPhone he'd stolen off some snotty North side kid earlier that morning. A ratty older picture of Debbie flashed across the screen and without wondering about how or why his sister's phone was programmed into this phone, he hit decline and whipped it across the room carelessly.

The glass shattered against the wall mercilessly and Carl sat back on his elbows, wishing he still had the ability to get off from solid destruction. Seems all it did these days was numb an ache that he'd had for years now, a dull throbbing he wasn't certain he'd ever be able to rid himself of.

He shoved the blade back into his pocket, and pushed himself off what had once been his bed, choosing to pretend that the pain in his leg was just a phase. He'd never been weak, it wasn't anything serious, and he couldn't afford to have it looked at by anyone who deemed themselves as a professional.

The house was peacefully empty for what was probably the first time in solid years, and it gave him an uncomfortable chill. He poked around at the shit under his bed, still absolutely entranced by the weapons he'd managed to scam when he was no less than twelve years old.

He was still leaning over to investigate what suspiciously looked like a katana when a door rattled heavily against the wall and a burst of red hair came running up the stairs. Carl froze in his spot, completely unprepared for anyone to have been home, let alone hold a conversation with him. Or more likely beat on him given the past and what he's done.

Hope was fruitless in the Gallagher household, however, and Debbie must have caught sight of the shattered phone remains as she had slowly crept forward to investigate, jumping a foot in the air when she caught sight of the body on the floor.

Carl could hear her trying to catch her breath and if he wouldn't have chopped his hair back to a shorter length and wouldn't have been covered in blood, he was positive she would've recognized him off the bat. Even as is, it took a few seconds before she seemed to find her speech, obviously fighting heavily against what he knew couldn't be tears. Not from Debbie, not after everything.

"Carl?" She reached a hand out, as if she feared he'd run off like a deer caught in headlights and he decided to humor her as he stood upright easily towering over her small frame.

As uncomfortable as he suddenly was around Debbie, he wasn't anywhere near prepared for when Fiona's characteristically exhausted face peaked in the doorway, obviously unhinged about the lack of responses Debbie had been providing. Fiona wasted no time in gathering him in her arms, and he felt himself relax slightly, something that hadn't come easy to him since he was eight years old and frying goldfish in the microwave.

She pulled back only seconds later, her eyes dotted up with the tears he'd refused to acknowledge from Debbie. Resting her hand lightly against his cheek, she looked as though she was ready to begin the interrogation. But Debbie beat her to it.

"Carl, what the fuck?" He met her eyes and she looked torn between beating him to within an inch of his life and never letting him go, and if he was being honest to himself, he'd missed her. He and Debbie had stayed closest throughout everything, throughout the shit show that hadn't officially started until after Mickey had been carted off and Debbie had given her child up for adoption. A touchy subject she'd never once breached since that day, something he didn't think she'd ever be able to live down.

"Where have you been?" Fiona joined in, tilting his head to the side as she inspected his injuries, probably internally debating over what exactly he'd been up to the last six months.

"I've been around," He responded vaguely, kicking his own old box of weapons back underneath the bed and making a move to leave. Staying wasn't an option; he hadn't been meant to run into his siblings, had only been supposed to be in and out. Roaming was limited and if he admitted to his sisters what type of shit he'd gotten himself too deep into, he'd either wind up dead or begging for it.

Carl had only meant to supply himself with the few weapons he knew he still had stashed away; he'd be expected back soon and staying out after dark wasn't a risk he wanted to toy with.

"You can't even stay for dinner?" Fiona asked, head tipped in what he'd come to recognize as barely concealed concern held up only by an unconvincing smile. Carl fought against his options soundlessly before nodding his head, despite the fact that he had no intentions of staying.

Fiona took it with a grain of salt, only reaching around to hug him one last time before pulling back and pointing at his face accusingly.

"You clean the blood off your face and then come downstairs. Don't think you're getting away without an explanation." She shot him a look and he nodded his head, though it was unconvincing even to himself.

Debbie leaned against the doorway, arms crossed over her chest with more than just a little distrust in her eyes.

"Are you working with them again?" She asked after a beat.

He paused mid-step and shook his head. "No. You've got nothing to worry about."

She made a noise in the back of her throat and tossed him a look. "You are, aren't you?"

"When did it become your fucking business?" He snapped, wiping up some of the blood with his sleeve. He had barely crossed the threshold of the dingy bathroom before she'd invaded his personal space and had shoved him in pent-up anger at his six month absence.

His back cracked against the door and he didn't have time to register the pain before the anger took control of his limbs and he shoved her to the floor. Dried blood coated against his face, left eye swollen shut from the brute force of a fist that had easily been larger than his head, he knew he painted the image of south side scum. But it had been what he wanted. What he needed.

Debbie barely spared him a glance as she backed up and left him to his devices, though the tension in her shoulders told him she wasn't done with this conversation. The fear he'd seen in her expression hadn't been easy to digest either.

Waiting for the tell tale sound of the bottom step groaning underneath pressure, a sure sign that Debbie was heading to the kitchen, he started up the shower and shut the door behind him as he escaped back to his old room.

He quietly yanked the box out of its hiding spot and tucked it safely under his arm. Pulling an old sweatshirt on over his head and casting one last nostalgic look towards the hallway that he'd injured himself in quite frequently as a kid, he popped open the bedroom window and slid out onto the roof. He didn't have time to think of the consequences as he took a steadying breath and jumped.


End file.
